Chapter Text
How they get him out doesn’t matter. The specifics never mattered. Get in, complete the mission, get out. That’s how they always ran. It’s how they got results. It’s why they have a plan for any eventuating situation. Any terrain. Any enemy. Any situation. Any curve ball.
All the way through until Plan 99 – not that they ever had to consider executing it until now.
Now here sits Crosshair on board the Havoc Marauder for the first time since… His breath hitches at the prospect. Not helped by the shuttle continuing to rattle around him as they escape. Crosshair sits on the floor of the cargo hold, deposited there unceremoniously while the commotion boils over in the ship around him. Tech at the helm. Echo manning co-pilot’s systems. Wrecker in the tailgun. Hunter coordinating. The kid–
She means nothing to you.
Crosshair’s head sinks into his hands. There is an angry line of raised skin where he was strapped down. It’s surrounded by the prickly regrowth of his hair.
So why suffer?
That might just have become the standing question in Crosshair’s life. Why he makes no effort to move from the floor of the Havoc Marauder. He makes no movement other than to keep breathing, oh-so-stubbornly. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.
The ship shudders into hyperspace.
In. Out. In. Out. In.
He can feel them all staring at him. He must look like a right mess – exhausted, battered, and covered in yellow residue from the doctor’s suffocating gas. A far cry from the proud soldier who turned them away on Kamino, bathed in similar yellow hues from the cursed planet’s sunrise. He doesn’t feel renewed. Refreshed. He feels picked apart like a specimen, like what has already happened, and like what continues to happen as his former squad all look down at him.
In. Out. In, out. In, out. In–out, in–out, in–out, in–
Something foreign brushes his chin. The memory is fresh enough that it scarcely startles him – Crosshair is lucid enough to know where he is – but he still pulls back from it, surprised. He hasn’t uncovered his face. He hasn’t tuned in to listen to them pity him for the choices he has made. But he does understand, all of sudden, when they try again and small droplets of liquid spill from the straw he is being offered.
Maker, Crosshair is thirsty. And famished. And tired. And–
He tastes electrolytes, mixed in with the aftertaste of the gas still coating him. If he weren’t so parched he would have bothered with gagging, instead, whoever it is helps him with the electrolyte pack and takes it away when he finishes it. The rush of some nutrients, as well as his body’s gratitude for the assistance, has him open his ears to what is going on.
Which is murmuring. Tapping on a datapad. A quiet comm conversation in the next room. The subtle creak of plastoid as someone moves around. The anticipation of baited breath. The sound of another water ration being carefully opened.
“Ya want another one, Cross?”
Wrecker’s voice. He is trying his utmost best to speak softly and like he isn’t worried. But his tells are obvious. The quietness is the very first tell. The second is the hesitance in his voice. The third is the way he says Crosshair’s name, rather, the shortened version of it that is usually reserved for his…
A shake of Crosshair's head has Wrecker shrink back with a worried, “Oh.”
In–out–in–out–in–out–
In–out–in–out–
In–out–
“Hey,” croons Wrecker, again. He doesn’t offer the straw again. He doesn’t move. “Can we take a look at ya?”
Likewise, Crosshair makes no effort to move. He doesn’t lift his head from his hands. He doesn’t face them. To see who lied for – and kept lying for. To see who he suffered for – and continues suffering for. Crosshair also makes no effort to control his breathing. To control his body at all. So his left hand slips from his face, but before it can fall, a massive hand catches it and holds it in place. Not aiming to be restrictive, instead, a steady offering while Crosshair deals with… all of this.
In–out… in-out… in-out…
He wants to pull away, but… He wants to not think of those restraints, but… He wants to not be here, but…
A thumb rubs gently across the back of his knuckles.
In-out… in-out… in… out… in… out…
“Cross?”
His voice feels like he’s forcing it out of a straw, but… “What?”
“Can we take a look at ya?” Wrecker pauses for a beat, then adds in clarification, “Jus’ me n’ Tech.”
That suddenly starts Crosshair out of the stupor he has found himself in. He gains control of his breathing, befitting of a trained sniper, to hiss out, “Where’s Hunter?”
The hand still resting on Crosshair’s head, his right hand, brushes the burn scar on the side of his head. His fingers press into the familiarly twisted skin. Wrecker familiarly soothes Crosshair’s other hand, but still, he also makes no effort to move. Or to answer.
Instead it’s Tech who explains, “He suggested you would be more comfortable with a reduced number of people.”
Well, he’s not wrong. Hunter usually isn’t.
“Your heart rate has slowed somewhat. Good. We would like to administer first aid for your immediate injuries, then at your discretion, intravenous fluids and assistance for any pain you may be experiencing.”
“So you scanned me.”
“Only when your panic attack subsided, however I–”
Wrecker makes a shushing noise. Though Crosshair can’t see him – with his eyes screwed shut against the familiar-yet-alien environment – he can hear Tech’s face twist in worry. Crosshair knows that he worries about his attempts at care and attention being misinterpreted. Tech worries about being accused that he doesn't care.
“We just wanna help, Cross,” Wrecker says. He squeezes Crosshair’s hand gently, then sets his hand down. “Look, if you don’t wanna… or if ya just want some more water…”
So why suffer?
Crosshair thinks of all of the times he hallucinated this.
Kamino. The Marauder coming back for him. The vague hope never wavering even after thirty-two rotations. Alone.
Coruscant. Everyone busting in guns blazing to keep him company in the recovery ward. Eating meals with him. Making sure he could get some sleep after his ordeal.
Desix. Tech checking him over after the tank barrage. How many points Wrecker would have allocated for the various special kills – the tank, droidekas, other specialist droids. Hunter’s knife flying across the stairwell to save him from the commando droid.
Barton-4.
Weyland.
But that was then. Now…
“Cross, look, we… I…” The plastoid of Wrecker’s armour shifts again, then with an oof, he sits down on the floor opposite of Crosshair. “I know s’not all fixed ‘cause of this. But we just wanna fix you right now. Yer hurt. Please. Let us help ya.”
In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.
In. Out. In. Out.
In. Out.
In.
Out.
The silence, only broken by his breaths, would be deafening if Crosshair weren’t already so defeated. Exhausted. Battered. Covered in the spoils of his escape. Sitting on the floor of the Havoc Marauder.
So Crosshair sighs, “Is the kid safe?”
“Omega’s safe,” Wrecker answers, “which is all thanks to yer message tellin’ us, y’know. Thank you for savin’ her.”
In.
Hold.
Out.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
A weight seems to rush from the room with Crosshair’s agreement, quickly replaced by the smell of antiseptic solution and everything sterile. It makes his skin crawl – not as literally as it had before – but for the better of his exhausted and battered body, he lets Wrecker and Tech help. Through it all, he doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t feel ready to face them. He doesn’t feel ready to confront whether it was all worth it. Where his loyalties lie.
So why suffer?
And yet for all of Crosshair’s fears, doubts, and pain, they indeed do help him. They get him settled on the Havoc Marauder. They clean the grime of Mount Tantiss off him. They give him a liberal amount of painkillers and sedative so that he doesn’t feel any which way about keeping his eyes closed.
In… out… in… out… in… out…
They take him somewhere tropical. He’s too exhausted and battered to keep track beyond that, floating somewhere in the haze between awake and asleep. It’s there he draws the comparisons–
The taste of fish and rations, snowy grit, the solution the torture droid fed him… compared to the taste of the intravenous solution on his tongue.
The sound of the Kamino’s churning waves, rainstorms, gunfire, the howling wind, the buzzing of the torture droid… compared to the quiet ambience of the tropics; chatter from its villagers, the crashing of waves into the shore, the sounds of crickets after the sun has sunk lazily below the horizon.
The feel of the Imperial’s scratchy sheets, his head as he shaved it, his scar as he brushed it, his rifle as he used it… compared to the fluffy blanket that never seems to move from around his shoulders, the warm towels over his hands.
The scent of burned flesh, sterile Imperial facilities, gunpowder and flint… compared to the wafting smells of home-cooked meals, petrichor, and sea spray.
The sight of… no, Crosshair’s enhanced sight that made him privy to everything under the Empire’s thumb… compared to how Crosshair has been resting for at least three days since arriving to this new tropical location. He has seldom opened his eyes, only for a few moments at a time, to peer at the setup of the room around him – not a medical room, but also not simply assigned quarters either. Somewhere in the middle.
In… out… in… out… in… out…
The island is called Pabu. It’s indeed tropical. It’s nice. Relaxing. It also feels too good to be true. Which is why it’s impossible for Crosshair to let his guard down. Even if the island’s doctor nor Tech keep him chained to their professional opinions about his recovering health. Even if everybody gives him his space. Even if he’s allowed to leave at any time – even if he has no ship with means to leave and nowhere to actually go that isn’t the vague destination of ‘away from here’.
So why suffer?
So why–
Shoving the pillow over his face does nothing. The same unanswered questions linger. The same eagle-eyed vision he has yet he still can’t figure out where his loyalties lie. The same serene atmosphere of a tropical night. Right now, it’s warm enough to sleep without the fluffy blanket, yet cool enough to keep it tucked around him. Then there’s the crashing of the ocean waves into the shores of Lower Pabu. The crickets that keep the nighttime company, only to be chased away by the dawn. It’s by then that Crosshair still can’t sleep, so while grumbling, he gathers up his blanket, his rifle – his original one that the Bad Batch confiscated on Kamino – and scales the roof of the house.
He spends a lot of time up here. Mornings, afternoons, evenings, and nights.
It tastes like seaspray and a comfortable temperature – not uncomfortably hot like the clone barracks on Coruscant, and not uncomfortably cold like a blizzard. He can breathe it all in up here.
It sounds like the waves, the crickets, and the rest of the animals that populate the island. The comforting click of his rifle as he secures the stock before climbing up onto the roof.
It feels like the terracotta mud bricks underneath his weathered hands, hand-crafted by clay from the island’s south side. The grooves of his rifle as he adjusts its comforting weight in his hands, shifting its magnified scope across the lengths of the horizon.
It smells like fresh night air with the vague scents of the ocean. The lingering smell of whatever meal Wrecker cooked recently in the kitchen, below where Crosshair likes to sit – just above the adjacent balcony in base he needs to quickly jump down.
It looks like a lot of things. The horizon. The landscape of the island. The pleasant sunshine that returns some of the pallour to his skin. The cloud formations and the constellations. Tonight it looks like…
“Hunter?”
Crosshair freezes at the edge of the roof. Precariously balanced. Meanwhile, the other clone has taken Crosshair’s usual spot. He looks as surprised as Crosshair feels. He’s missing his usual bandana, as well as his vest and boots – he’s simply dressed in his sleep clothes. Even his hair is loose.
“Oh, hey,” Hunter returns, all casual-like, like they haven’t been avoiding each other since everything went down. “Sorry, I know I’m in your spot.”
“And yet you’re not moving.”
Hunter raises his hands in surrender, then moves to get up. “Movin’. Enjoy the sunrise.”
Crosshair’s former sergeant approaches, if only to climb back down the roof the same way Crosshair climbed up. He gives Crosshair a small smile in passing, an apologetic one. Up close, he smells like the good aftershave they keep in the back of the Marauder’s ‘fresher cabinet. He looks tired. His eyes are red and puffy from crying.
So why suffer?
Deep breath.
In… and out.
“Sit back down, Hunter.”
Now Hunter freezes. It takes a moment, but he turns away from the edge of the roof, then he looks at Crosshair. He doesn’t meet his eyes. But Crosshair sees it all anyway.
Crosshair sighs, “Before I change my mind.”
And so they sit. Crosshair in his usual spot, Hunter next to him, with both of their legs dangling over the edge of the roof. They don’t touch one another. No words are spoken between them. Neither one of them makes any movement other than to keep breathing as they watch the sunrise together.
In and out.
After all, it’s the only way to start getting better.